


Language of the Seasons

by visionshadows



Category: The Hours - Michael Cunningham
Genre: Consensual Infidelity, F/M, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:59:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visionshadows/pseuds/visionshadows





	Language of the Seasons

 

Disclaimer: All characters represented belong to Michael Cunningham. No profit is intended or being made. I am only offering this fic up as a possible past for these characters and a possible explanation for what happened during the summer of 1965 in Wellfleet. This is not representative of anything Michael Cunningham may have believed for their past.

Author's notes:  Written in 4 parts representing the 4 seasons; it is up to the reader to decide which season is which section. Also written in reverse. Beta'd by me. All feedback is loved and cherished.  
  
---  
  
 

Language of the Seasons

"I want a doomed love."  
\- _The Hours_ pg. 135

Wellfleet, 1965

 

4.

Sunlight streamed through the wooden slats of the blinds, painting Clarissa's skin in muted tones of gold and grey. She rolled onto her back, exposing her small but firm breasts to the caress of the sun. Next to her, Richard snuffled into the pillow, his hair mussed in the back and fingernail marks visible on his shoulders. She laid her fingers against the marks, matching up which ones belonged to her and which belonged to Louis.

The sunlight kept her from falling back into slumber, so she rose, an ungainly girl who would never be a beautiful woman. She slid panties over her strong thighs, the cotton wrinkling and bunching at the waistband. She was built like a plank, little shape in her hips and chest. Her hair was too short, styled only with the fingers on her right hand or, like today, the neck hole of a T-shirt.

She was not a beauty, nor was Richard. Louis though, Louis was beautiful, an aberration in their plainness. When Louis's hand rested on the back of Richard's neck, the beauty traveled along their joined skin and Richard's blocky features seemed to soften and appeared lovely. Clarissa often wondered if that beauty could be passed on to her as well.

The kitchen was dry, the underlying promise of later humidity tingeing the air. Clarissa moved with light steps around the table, washing a glass in the sink for her juice. She would make coffee later; Richard lived on the bitter taste of her coffee.

Clarissa poured a glass of orange juice from a stone pitcher, sliding it back into the ice box before she turned to look at Louis, his beautiful face haunted with the knowledge that Richard had shared Clarissa's bed the night before.

"Coffee?"

"No." Louis sat down at the table, his forearms decorated with pale pink webs of healing skin. Clarissa pretended not to see them. "Come sit, Mrs. D."

Clarissa wrinkled her nose at the name - Mrs. Dalloway. Did they really see her like that? Trapped in a bourgeoisie world of parties and manners? - but joined Louis anyway, perched on his lap. She leaned back against his broad chest, his strong thighs supporting her own strong thighs. One of his hands fell to rest against the soft skin of her inner thigh.

Once, three weeks ago, Louis would have slid his hand up a little higher to try to give her pleasure, to prove that he wasn't going to be left behind. But his hand had faltered and she had stepped away, watching as Louis crumpled and gave Richard over to her.

Clarissa drank her orange juice and stared hopelessly at the curtains hanging limply over the small kitchen window. She wished for a breeze, something to mix up the stale air and fill it with something less dead.

Louis kissed her shoulder and Clarissa turned her head slightly, saw the pale head bent with lips against her skin. He looked up at her with saddened eyes that asked too many questions for Clarissa to answer at one time.

There was nothing left for either of them to say anyway.

 

3.

 

Clarissa looked at the bed Richard and Louis shared nightly, the covers rumpled and the pillows in disarray. Behind her, Louis was breathing too fast, obviously slightly panicked. Her own heartbeat ran in time with his breaths, both of them scared of what was going to come next, but unwilling to back down.

The bed called to her, the russet sheets and threadbare patchwork blanket both inviting and repellent at the same time. She stepped forward and began to straighten the pillows and tug the bedclothes into some semblance of order. Louis stopped her hands, wrapping long finger around her own.

She stared at them, seeing faint white scars and dark hair on the knuckles. These hands touched Richard, held him close, breached his body. Clarissa shivered in Louis's grasp and lifted her head to meet his eyes.

Gay. Louis was very gay. Yet here he stood beside a bed where he made love to Richard, holding the hand of a woman, prepared to make love to her - all for Richard. The enormity of the situation hit her and she inhaled sharply, her fingers clutching desperately at Louis's hand. Louis loved Richard and she loved Richard. Now all they had to do was learn to love each other.

"Should we ... ?" Clarissa trailed off, looking at the bed. Louis shifted uncomfortably next to her, his lithe form casting shadows on the wall from the lamplight. "Before he gets back."

"Yes," Louis said, his voice hoarse. "Before he gets back."

Clarissa turned and leaned back against the bed, the mattress hitting her mid-thigh. She drew her free hand up and touched Louis's cheek, the faint rasp of stubble against her skin reminding her that this was another man - only the second she had been willing to sleep with. His chin trembled a little as she leaned forward and kissed him.

It was passionless and left her feeling cold. Louis's lips against her own felt foreign and the trembling hadn't stopped even as his lips softened and allowed her entrance to his mouth. She tasted whiskey and pot on his tongue and wondered if her own taste was similar to him, if he knew that both of them had to alter themselves to be able to do this.

"Here." Louis murmured, shifting a little and placing a hand on her hip. "Let me."

Clarissa pressed her lips against his jaw as Louis slid his hand over the top of her undershirt, the fabric bunching under his touch until he grazed one of her breasts, stopping immediately with his fingers resting against the swell of her flesh. His jaw trembled under her lips and he moved his hand to cup her breast, searching out a nipple.

"Wait," Clarissa said, pulling back. She inhaled slowly and climbed onto the bed, waiting for him to join her. When he didn't move, she reached over and grabbed his hand, tugging him forward. "I'm going to take off my shirt. You should do the same."

Louis sat on the bed and pulled off his shirt, tossing it aside. She did the same, but sat hunched forward, hiding her breasts with her knees. Half-naked was closer to being fully naked which was closer to being finished than they were five minutes ago. Louis ran a sweaty hand down her spine and she unconsciously arched into the touch.

They kissed again and it was slightly better. Louis had stopped trembling and she felt that the kiss was something other than just wet this time. They could do this if they really set their minds to it. She was sure of it. Richard had told her that she could do anything if she really wanted to. His lips had touched her breast and she had believed him, her fingers tangled in his thick hair and her hips arched up to meet his own.

Did Louis believe Richard's words as well?

"I don't," Louis whispered, his voice thick. "I don't know what to do now."

The admission pained her and Clarissa kept her eyes shut as she guided one of Louis's hands to her breasts. He pinched much too rough and she shrank back, making a pathetic mewl of pain. Louis rested his head against her breastbone and wept.

Clarissa felt the hot tears drip down her ribcage and she gave up trying to arouse him, gave up trying to make this work. His hands were curled under his body, only his forearms exposed. Trails of new pink skin, a few remaining harsh black lines cutting across his tanned flesh. Beauty destroyed, she thought. This is what I have done to him.

 

2.

 

Clarissa leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. Richard, his face craggy and old with worry, was pacing forward five steps before turning and walking back again. There had been so much blood, more blood than Clarissa had thought possible for shallow cuts.

Richard sat down heavily in the chair next to her, running a hand down her curved spine. He left his hand on the small of her back, heavy and warm. She pressed back against it, straightening up and looking over at him.

"He'll be fine."

Richard didn't sound convinced to her ears, but she kept her mouth closed and only nodded quickly, her eyes turning back to the twin doors Louis had entered surrounded by nurses and doctors. A small county hospital. Blood was a big deal.

Richard began to pace again and Clarissa slumped forward in the chair, resuming her former position. She wondered what it was like for Louis right now, surrounded by doctors and nurses, the room smelling metallic from his blood. The bathroom at the house smelled metallic and wet when they dragged Louis from it an hour ago, his head lolling on his neck and his eyes wet with tears.

"It's not our fault, you know."

The words broke through her ruminations about blood, forcing her eyes to rise and fall on Richard's form again. He ran his hand through his hair and sat next to her again.

"Louis, Louis is passionate, a little too passionate about some things. He's just seeing more than there is. We're all just having fun."

"He loves you." Clarissa leaned against Richard's solid shoulder. "I love you."

"We all love each other." Richard trailed a finger along the curve of her cheek, leaving tendrils of sensation in his path. His lips followed the curve of her ear, wet and sensual. "We always will."

"Dreamer," Clarissa murmured, her eyes fluttering shut and her head tilting to give him more access to her skin. "We ask for too much from him."

"He will give. As will you."

The door opened and Richard pulled away, rising to his feet again. Clarissa followed, a step behind Richard in their eyes.

"Your ... brother," the doctor started, eyeing the both of them. "Will be fine. We stitched up the deepest of the cuts. We'd like to keep him overnight for observation."

Richard's fingers closed tightly around her wrist, the bones grinding together. Clarissa gritted her teeth, but said nothing. The doctor looked over at his nurse, both of them obviously uncomfortable.

"Are we allowed to see him?" Richard loosened his grip at her words.

"No. He's asleep." The doctor gave them a tight smile. "You may pick him up in the morning. If we have any problems, we will call you."

Richard eyed them both before taking Clarissa's hand and stalking out of the hospital. His face was red, his strides quick. She stumbled after him and let him take the wheel of the car.

An hour ago she had been cradling Louis in the backseat, stroking his hair and pretending he wasn't dripping blood on her. Clarissa twisted in the passenger seat to look at the drying stains on the upholstery.

Richard slammed his hand against the steering wheel, swearing loudly. Clarissa jumped and covered his hand with her own. He turned to her, his eyes shining. A gentle hand coaxed his head to the curve of her neck and then to her lips.

A kiss to seal them together, an echo of the kiss that tore the three of them apart.

 

1.

 

Clarissa dug her toes in the sand near the edge of the lake, watching the morning sun glint off the smooth surface. She wore an old cardigan of brown cotton that smelled like cigar smoke from Richard's cigar phase last fall. She absconded with it a few days earlier, needing more of a guard against the surprising morning chill. Her mind was still fuzzy from the night before, too much wine for all three of them.

"Good morning, Mrs. D." Richard's arms slipped around her waist and he pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. She leaned against him briefly, a smile curving her lips. "Have you been walking through the garden again?"

Clarissa smacked his arm and twisted away, a soft smile on her face. "Stop calling me that."

Richard chuckled and hooked their arms together. "I'll walk with you this morning."

"Where's Louis?"

"Right here,” Louis said, standing slightly apart from the two of them. He smiled tiredly and looked back at the lake.

“Come wade with me, Clarissa!” Richard pulled her towards the lake, up and over the dune to the water.

"No!" Clarissa laughed and twisted out of his grasp. He managed to hold onto the sleeve of the cardigan as she flopped down on the dune. "Let go, Richard."

Richard splashed his way out of the lake and pulled her to her feet. With a gentle hand, he pushed her short hair away from her face and kissed her forehead, his other hand resting on the back of her neck.

"Are you sure you won't go in the lake with me?"

"I'm sure." Clarissa tilted her face upwards, unsure of what she was even asking for, of what Richard wanted to give. She could hear Louis climbing the dune, coming in search of them.

Richard's warm hands cupped her face, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. Lips pressed against her own, promising nothing and everything she ever wanted. She brought her hands up to rest tentatively against Richard's shoulders and thought about forever.

 


End file.
